Hollowlight: The Weaver of Tide-Threads

I wanted to love this more than I did. The setting of Fenholm is beautifully sketched — I could smell the dried seaweed and hear the tide-thread humming — and Ansel is a sympathetic protagonist. But the plot felt a bit predictable: the spool-as-macguffin, the confrontational Archivist who freezes grief, and the expected moral about sacrifice all felt familiar. The climax where Ansel faces the cost of keeping what we love skates over some practical questions about how memory-binding actually works; the sea-witch's lens and the clockwork fox are evocative but underexplored. Pacing is uneven too — the first half luxuriates in small-town details, which I adored, but the final act rushes resolutions in a way that lessened the emotional payoff. Still, there are gorgeous sentences here and there, and readers who prioritize atmosphere over surprise will probably enjoy it.

I showed up expecting seagulls and spools, left with a clockwork fox and a bruise on my heart. The bell scene at the harvest fair — the first ring coming out thin as paper wind — is the perfect microcosm of the whole book: gorgeous imagery with stakes you feel in your bones. The story is clever without being showy, and the sea-witch's lens is a neat bit of magical hardware. Also, bravo for making grief feel like something you can almost hold. Funny, tender, and just salty enough. Would read again. 😉

Concise and lovely. The opening harbor passage hooked me immediately — the salt, wood smoke, and the ritual of the tide-thread are rendered so precisely you can almost hear the bell. I appreciated how the spool as a literal object anchors the town's memories; the sea-witch's lens and clockwork fox add just the right amount of whimsy without undercutting the stakes. Pacing mostly steady, with one or two rushed beats late on, but overall a tender coming-of-age that respects the weight of loss.

This is a rich, patient coming-of-age fantasy that understands the small mechanics of both craft and grief. The worldbuilding in Fenholm is tactile: children tying colored cloth to the bell's rim, Maer telling Ansel he keeps names in his pockets, Old Bene laying a weathered hand against bronze — these details make the town feel like a character. I loved how the spool that binds memory to tide becomes a moral fulcrum; it’s not just a quest item but a symbol of communal responsibility. The confrontation with the Archivist — who literally freezes grief — is handled with nuance. Rather than painting memory retention as purely noble, the narrative asks: what do we owe the living? Ansel's arc, from a carpenter's apprentice who 'mends wind-calls' to someone who learns sacrifice, felt earned. Stylistically, the prose balances lyricism and clarity; there are lines that read like poems beside fast-moving scenes of theft and recovery. Minor nitpick: a couple of secondary threads (a brief hint of a past romance, a side character's backstory) could have used more space. Still, the book's empathy and restraint make it stand out in a crowded genre.

Hollowlight is one of those books that quietly pulls you under and refuses to let go. I cried at the image of the bell at the quay ringing thin as paper wind and at Ansel closing a mouth when he fits a bell lip — such small, wrenching physical metaphors for grief. The clockwork fox is adorable and oddly heartbreaking, a perfect foil to Ansel's clumsy courage, and the sea-witch's lens scene (when the town’s memories shimmer and blur) felt like looking at my own past through someone else’s glass. The Archivist who freezes grief is terrifying and morally fascinating; the final price Ansel faces stuck with me long after I closed the page. Beautiful, melancholic, and surprisingly hopeful. Highly recommended for fans of character-driven fantasy. 🌊